


A Favor Begets Another (Flower)

by Kitty_KatAllie



Category: Daughter of the Lilies (Webcomic)
Genre: Awkward Dorks TM, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I used most of Meg's headcanons, flower shop au, real world AU, why is thistle/brent not a tag? WHAT?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 00:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_KatAllie/pseuds/Kitty_KatAllie
Summary: Real World AU vaguely inspired by Meg Syv's headcanons.Thistle owns a struggling flower shop. When a bad Craigslist buy means her only way of getting a large order filled is on the line, she's sure this will spell the end. With help from a friend of friend she's never met (why is Lyra laughing about that?) saves the day, she's determined to at least gift them with the only thing she has in abundance: flowers and gratitude. Hopefully, that'll be enough.(How did she end up with more?)





	A Favor Begets Another (Flower)

The last of the floor was swept clean, the counter wiped down at least three times, and she was reduced to scrubbing at her perfectly clean windows to peer anxiously down the street. While trying _not_  to be anxious. This was Lyra after all. Lyra could not only take care of herself, she could do it with a brash confidence that was both fearsome and enviable to behold. But…

That didn’t mean Thistle was any less actually anxious no matter how long and repetitive her inner monologue got.  

She was scrubbing at what was probably an imaginary speck when a vehicle pulled up in front of the shop. She hadn’t been able to afford a shop with a lot– she was lucky to have a shop at all, of course– so most costumers would walk in. Sometimes people would park on curb outside, but it was after hours by… Thistle looked over the nodding heads of the flowers towards the clock across the shop. By four hours.

She caught sight of bright red-blonde out the corner of her eye and spun around.

Sure enough, Lyra was getting out of the stranger’s beat-up, old, pick-up truck, leaning down to say something to the driver.

Lyra.

More than five hours late.

With grease covering the front of her shirt and up her arms.

Getting out of a stranger’s vehicle.

And the shop van nowhere in sight.

Thistle was running out the door before she could stop herself, the doorbell jangling so loudly Lyra hit her head on the window frame at the jarring sound behind her. She ducked more carefully out of the window, standing straight and rubbing the back of her head just in time for Thistle to get to her.

“Are you all right?! You weren’t answering the phone and you’re filthy! And you look exhausted! Are you okay?!” Thistle asked, grabbing Lyra’s arms and looking her over. Other than a very shallow scratch over the back of Lyra’s hand, though, she just appeared dirty and tired.

“’m _fine_ , jeez. Calm down, This. That hunk of junk broke down just like I told you it would. If you got a _cell phone_  and could _text_ , I woulda updated you, but I was on the phone with a f#^$ing tow service for hours and making calls trying to get that last d*&@ order delivered. I didn’t realize how long it’s been, though,” Lyra said, wincing a little. “I shoulda called you when I got the van dropped off. I was too busy b*&!#ing and moaning at Brent and Orrig.”

“I’m so sorry the van broke down already. I should’ve saved more or haggled for a better one,” Thistle said, shoulders pulling up high around her ears and chin dropping to her chest.

Lyra pffted loudly and patted Thistle’s back a little too hard. “Don’t worry about it. My guys got it.”

“After ve tell you many times not to vorry, ve vill help,” interrupted a deep, heavily accented voice from the truck. Lyra groaned and rolled her eyes upwards.

Thistle startled slightly and peered around Lyra to see the broad, stoic-faced older man with a swarthy not-quit dark complexion in the driver’s seat of the pick-up. Looking closer, Thistle was a little ashamed of herself for not noticing the logo painted over the door: ‘Orrig’s Automotive Services’. In smaller print under that, Thistle read, ‘You pay. We service.’

 _That’s… oddly put…_  she thought with some bemusement.

The intense, quiet gaze the driver gave her lingered, causing her to shrink into her hoodie. She’d gotten much better at talking with her customers, whom cared more about looking at the flowers than her face, but people taking too much interest, of any kind, her still got her flustered. A tiny, hissing, too-familiar voice in the back of her head called her _coward_ , _you utter and complete failure, you can’t even hide properly,_  the remembrance of her fear and desperation years ago– actual years ago– like in echo in her skull. She shook it away and straightened her shoulders as Lyra patted her hand on the hood of the truck in an obvious gesture of good-bye.

“Call when it’s ready, Orrig. You’re a lifesaver. Both of you, though don’t tell *&% for brains back at the garage,” Lyra warned with a smirk. Orrig hurrumphed and took off without another look back.

“I’m glad they helped you, Lyra, and that you’re safe. The van isn’t as important as your safety,” Thistle said, the last vestiges of that old fear gone as relief pressed hard against her breastbone. She lay her hand over her chest, sighing gustily, as Lyra led her towards the shop’s door.  

“That’s real sweet, Thistle. I’ll let Margot know you’re looking out,” Lyra replied, rolling her eyes heavenward even as her mouth twitched into a fondly exasperated smirk. “Or I guess you can tell her yourself on Sunday. She said she’ll be here bright ‘n early to help out.”

Thistle nodded, lowering her hood and locking the front door at last. Lyra was already yanking down the rolled-curtains when a sudden, horrifying realization struck Thistle. She’d been so concerned with _Lyra_ , she’d completely forgotten about just why she’d gone ahead and bought that clunker van instead of waiting for something better.

 _Sunday_.

“Oh god,” Thistle whispered on a shaky exhale, a hand clapping over her mouth. “What are we going to do about Sunday?”

“Huh? What?” Lyra asked, looking over from the hook where she hung her work shirt. She tugged down her tanktop while frowning. “I didn’t catch that.”

“ _Sunday_ ,” Thistle exclaimed, eyes glued to her feet. “How can we possibly get the order to the venue on time?! There are hundreds of those hanging floral pieces, the garlands and decorations, the centerpieces and the boutonnieres. The sweet little bouquets! This is the first big order we’ve been able to take on and it’ll be the _last_ –” she was groaning out the last of the list, eyes closing in pain and terror. Not to mention the crippling guilt.

Her tiny shop would be the reason for that adorable, birthday party-cum-cotillion being a disaster. Oh, there’ll still be all the friends and presents and cake and music, all those very fun and important parts. But that girl had been so excited! So bright and young and happy, meticulously planning all the colors and types of flowers with her sweet little friends to match their brand-new party dresses. Looking up to Thistle and asking for help and advice to make their vision come true. And her own, too. A cotillion, a real  _party_ , adorned and made lovely with _Thistle’s_  creations? It was something she’d considered a pipe dream that first struggling year, sure any day she’d be late on one too many bills and have to close down. Only thing comparable would've been a wedding.

 _You could barely handle living on someone else’s charity. You honestly thought this pathetic dream of yours would_ work _? You’re_ –

“Hey, hey, whoa, Thistle, calm down! I thought you’d realize it was all fine!” Lyra exclaimed somehow softly in her deep, raspy voice. “You know I woulda told you upfront if there was _that_  big a problem. It’s _okay_.”

Like dragging her head out from dark, heavy water, Thistle looked up and blinked stinging eyes. “w-What?”

“They didn’t just give me a tow and ride. Brent volunteered to get that hunk o’ junk working again by Saturday night, for no overtime. Orrig tried to put up a fight, but he’s probably gonna be in the garage with him, those softies. Well, Brent’s more soft _in the &^%@ing head_, but they’re good people, This.”

“But… even if they do… I can’t afford to pay them for the fees! Not until _after_  the cotillion and we get that second half of the payment.” One of the offers Thistle had made was only taking half before the party, when most shops required the full price upfront. The mother had been so relieved at that slight reprieve, she’d almost cried while thanking her. 

“I said they’re good people, you dingbat. Open them ears,” Lyra retorted, crossed her arms and frowned. Thistle barely kept from covering her slightly too large ears with her hood again. They _weren’t_  like bat ears, they just stuck out a _little_.

“I… still don’t understand…?” Thistle said hesitantly, hands clasping tight and loose and tight again absently in front of her.

“They’re willing to wait until after the party for the payment,” Lyra explained simply, and with way too much blasé to her words and body language for something so huge.

Thistle’s jaw dropped, eyes wide enough to hurt. "Th-they don’t even _know_  me. Why would they do something like that?”

Lyra sighed softly and leaned down the height between them to lay her hands on Thistle’s shoulders and meet her eye to eye. Thistle’s muscles just barely tensed before she caught herself. “Sometimes you gotta trust people. You trusted me, right? Have I let you down yet?”

Thistle slowly shook her head, a smile wobbling up the corner of her mouth. “It was the easiest decision I ever made, letting you talk me into hiring you.”

“F@&$ing right,” Lyra agreed with a smirk. The smugness fading quickly into that serious look again. “Those guys? They’ve known me for _years_ , and Orrig, the owner, he’s just a d&%@ good guy. I vouched for you, and now I’m vouching for them. Let people in. And not just me!”

She patted Thistle’s shoulder hard enough to almost bruise and then went back towards the counter where their things were hidden. Not that Lyra had many things. Just her leather jacket and motorcycle keys. It still unnerved Thistle watching Lyra drive off without a helmet.

“Margot was my friend first,” Thistle finally blurted. She let herself smile at Lyra’s laughter, forcing her locked and tense muscles to relax and her hands to fall to her sides. “I have to do _something_ , though. Even if I will be paying _every last penny_  before I so much as look at any other expenses.” She said it sternly, one arm crossing over her waist and her other hand loosely fisted in front of her mouth. She pressed her knuckles against her gnawed-raw lips and glanced around the shop pensively.

“You could always just smile at Brent. He’d keel over,” Lyra muttered under her breath.

“Hm, what was that?” Thistle asked, without actually listening or wanting an answer. She was already envisioning the idea- blooming, as it were, in her head.

Lyra huffed and shook her head. “Nope. Not important. What are you thinking, This?” She slung on her jacket as she waited, patting at her pockets for wallet, phone, and keys.

Thistle nodded and smiled brightly, rushing towards the few potted plants for sale. “It’s a garage, right? What about a fern or some nice aloe to brighten it up? Do you think they could do with extra ambiance?” She picked up both plants in question and held them up in her hands, as if weighing them.

“ _Extra_? Orrig doesn’t have _any_  ambiance. Well, no. He does have some nice crayon pictures, like, everywhere. He’s such a _dad_. I bet he’d like whatever you brought over, he just never thought about doing it himself, probably. Take him a bouquet for his wife and he’ll let you have a whole extra month to pay him back,” Lyra joked with a loud snorting chuckle.

“Oh, that’s such a great idea! The bouquet, not the month,” Thistle clarified quickly. “What about the other one? Ben? Oh, no. Was it Brad?”

For some reason, this set Lyra off on a bout of guffaws so loud and exuberant, Thistle not only flinched back in surprise, but Lyra had to prop herself against the nearest doorjamb to stay upright. She wrapped an arm around her stomach, as if to hold in her guts, and gulped in great heaving gasps of air between snorts and snickers.

“B-Brent. His name is _Brent_. You’ve m-met him, like, three times, Thistle!”

Thistle stared at her. Then, looked down at the potted plants in her arms. “Maybe I should give him a bouquet, too? I… I don’t remember him at all…” she confessed guiltily. She sighed irritably as Lyra clutched at the wall and screeched her laughter.

…

The next two days dragged on slowly. The shop didn’t open until 11 am on weekdays, since most customers tended to come in the afternoons after work. Or order during the lunch hour for special deliveries (which meant Thistle had to narrow down the delivery radius; without the van, she only had her rusty, old, Craigslist-find bike & basket). Lyra usually came in on inventory days or heavy delivery order days, so getting the address of Orrig’s Automotive was a feat in itself that thankfully took up a few empty hours in the day. Thistle’s cheap landline phone and spotty wifi (when she could catch the coffee shop across the street’s signal) meant she could only call between Lyra's classes. And Lyra always spent at least ten minutes making fun of her ‘fossil’ phone whenever Thistle managed to call at the right time. Address and number acquired, Thistle had found the best bus route to the garage between the few customers that came in– the typical office type wanting to spruce up the cubicle, a few housewives (and a husband or two) wanting to spruce up their house, a really large, easy order for a restaurant wanting short-cut carnations to put on their tables, etc and so on and so forth. It was actually nice having a few regulars and new orders.

But Thistle couldn’t help but stare at the office phone during every lull. Wondering when the call would come, but also knowing it was supposed to take until Saturday. She had everything planned, she’d even doodled the bouquet for Mrs. Dotra. Or was it Mrs. Orrig? Lyra had still been laughing about the Ben or Brad incident, and Thistle wasn’t sure she was remembering it correctly.

Saturday dragged by impossibly slow, even though she had twice the traffic of the weekdays (not much, but she could officially pay the _usual_  bills). Sunshine burned bright and hot outside, promising a great weekend for a birthday party, and Thistle sat on her stool, leg crossed over the other, alternating between gnawing at her fingernails and shredding her lips. Every time the phone rang, she leapt for it, startling several patrons once, and barely kept from groaning every time it was an order instead of the garage. Lyra coming in at 4 and shooing her into the back coolers to fiddle over the cotillion things probably saved her sanity.

She sat among the yellow and pink and purple flowers and for the first time in three days, let herself _enjoy_  them in the chill air. A knock interrupted her in the middle of smiling over the last minute fidgeting with the paper lace of a hanging chair piece.

“Hey, Thistle, Orrig’s just called,” Lyra started, sounding a little hesitant.

“Finally! I’ll grab the things, it’ll just be a minute to get those flowers–” Thistle exclaimed eagerly, tiptoeing and bobbing around the boxes and trays.

“Er, _well_.”

She froze mid-room, and mid-bobble, to stare at Lyra. Horror etched deep into her face when Lyra grimaced awkwardly. Lyra quickly held up her hands, then cursed as the door smacked her shoulder.

“Wait, wait, don’t freak out! It’s almost ready! They just got slammed. He said it should be done by 8, 8:30, if you don’t mind coming by after hours and getting it,” Lyra said quickly.

Thistle sighed in relief and then frowned. “Eight-thirty? That seems a little late.”

“A little?” Lyra said wryly. She shooked her head and shrugged. “Whatever. They volunteered. Don’t feel guilty. Really, don’t. He just wants points.”

“… Mr. Orrig wants… points?” Thistle repeated in confusion.

Lyra flapped her hand negligently and backed out again. “If rockhead @&#%ed it up somehow and you need a ride, make sure you _call_ me before trying to take bus that late.”

Thistle blanched white at the idea of getting a ride with Lyra on the motorcycle. Also, not having the van for Sunday. (But mainly the motorcycle.)

 

 

The box containing the potted plants and bouquet rattled on her lap as the bus lumbered its way through town. It was already pretty dark, the last of the late summer’s sun fading away into twilight. She lived in the converted storeroom in the back of the shop, so getting the van back and getting home were the same thing. But hopefully it wouldn’t take too long getting across town or finding a spot. She wasn’t the best driver, which was one the reasons why Lyra volunteered for deliveries. She preferred walking, or riding her bike. Something she could _meander_  on. Daydream a little. Or read at the same time. She was a wizard at read-walking.

The automated PA system called out her stop and she scrambled to her feet, wincing when the clay pots clattered against each other. The crinkle of cellophane never sounded so _ominous_  as when a bouquet might be one klutzy moment from decimation. She stumbled onto the sidewalk, peering into the box before carefully carrying it the rest of the way down the street to the garage.

Like the title, the garage itself was simple. An old brick building with roll-down doors on the bays and a simple glass swinging door. There was one large bay window in the front, but a curtain had been dropped to hide the interior. An interior that looked _really_  dark.

“Oh no!” Thistle groaned, rushing forward the best she could and trying to peer into the gloom. The plain, blocky, white lettering stated the hours across the front of the door. Saturdays they were open the latest.

At 7:00.

She’d gotten on the bus after 8, it should just barely be 8:30. Had Lyra misheard the time?

Thistle leaned a little closer, bracing her elbow on the bar across the door. It swung inward under her weight and she barely bit back a shriek as she rattled into the dark lobby.

“Lyra?!” shouted a muffled, pissed off voice from further in. There was light coming from a nearby doorway behind the counter. Just barely, Thistle could make out the actual garage area. “Lyra, get your @&$ in here!”

Thistle squeaked and jumped in place. _I must’ve kept him waiting! I should’ve come at 8. Earlier is always better, but I didn’t want to rush him!_   “Sorry, sorry! I’m coming!” she gasped, all but throwing herself around the counter and into the garage.

“Sorry?” There was a loud, ear-splitting clanging and the sound of wheels on concrete. “You’re definitely not Lyra.”

A vaguely familiar man about Thistle age, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger, but definitely _bigger_ , came from around a large tow truck. He was in blue coveralls, a little too tight around the tummy and shoulders, and wiping his hands on a filthy red rag. For some reason his face looked red and he was looking _around_  Thistle instead of _at_  her.

“Y-yes. I mean, no. I’m not. I’m Thistle.” She shifted the box in her arms discreetly. “Would you rather I be? She said you were friends.”

“Right. That’s what we are,” he said, rolling his eyes _hard_. He got up close and rubbed the back of his neck. “Brent. Not Brad.”

“Oh gods! She _told_  you that?!” Thistle exclaimed, aghast. She almost dropped the box in dismay. Suddenly the weight– such as it was– was lifted away and Brent held it easily aloft.

“Flowers? I guess that makes sense. With the van. And the shop. That’s your shop, right? Cuz your name’s on the van. @#$%,” he muttered the last word under his breath and stared off to the side. Thistle blinked in confusion.

“My name? Oh, _oh_. No, it was more the other way around,” Thistle said, smiling a little despite herself. Brent scowled at her, though more bewildered than angry, it seemed. “Yes, flowers.” She said that firmly, patting the box near his hand.

“Um, I’m not… not much for flowers,” he muttered even while eyeing the bouquet.

“That’s for Dotra, actually. Those, anyway. Yours is in the box with Mr. Orrig’s. I got him a nice aloe, the spiky looking one,” she clarified at his blank stare.

“Huh. Spiky? I see it. I guess mine’s that little hairy one?” For some reason, he sounded disappointed as he squinted at it.

“Succulent.”

“Like chicken?”

Thistle burst into giggles, and promptly slapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to– at you. I mean, no? Maybe in a way? It’s a plant called a succulent. This one is actually called a panda succulent, I always thought that was cute. They actually live for a while and very easy to take care of. I don’t know if you live with someone else, or if your place is small, so I got you one of the smaller ones. But if you like it, we have these long platter planter boxes, and you can put it with some others, or get some cacti to go with it, decorate it with rocks and other things. It’s a big hit with little kids! It’s not a _pizza_  party, but it’s interesting, I guess? Sorry, I’m babbling now. I get really excited about… plants… I guess…” Thistle trailed off, shoulders curling inward and chin dropping.

“No! It’s fine! You’re cute–the _plants_. When you talk about the plants. That’s cute,” Brent blurted in a rush.

Abruptly, as Thistle’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened, the box slipped from Brent’s arms. They both dived for it. At the same time, they snatched it, arms wrapping like a hug around it. Brent’s sturdier frame and strength lifted her onto her toes before she thought to let go. They stared past giant black-eyed Susans and white daisies with mouths parted and identically startled expressions.

Thistle quickly jerked away, heat flooding her face and arms feeling awkwardly empty.

“Thanks.”

“What?”

Brent cleared his throat and jerked his chin towards the box. His face was bright red, endearingly so, and Thistle was rapidly blinking that odd thought away. And then pausing to bring it back and think it again curiously “Thanks for the flowers. And the… panda succotash.”

“Um,” Thistle pressed her twitching lips together. “It’s a panda succulent.”

“Yeah. That one. I’m just… I’ll go put them away,” he muttered, starting to literally _sidle_  around her. She turned with him, eyebrows high.

“They’re for the van. You’ve… you’ve been the one working on it, haven’t you?” she asked astutely.

“It’s Orrig’s place. I never woulda been able to if he hadn’t–” Brent disagreed almost vehemently, head turned away.

“But you did. Maybe I _should’ve_ given you a bouquet. There’s something about flowers and that panda succulent doesn’t seem enough…” Thistle said. Her fingers twisted together in front of her chest and slowly, she smiled at him, making sure he met her eyes. “Thank you. _Brent_.”

Brent stared at her, mouth falling silently open and eyes a little wide. The stare lasted long enough her smile quivered at the corner and her shoulders began to curl inward again. Brent gulped visibly, Adam’s apple working in his throat as he stared at the box in his arms.

“It’s… It’s nothing. I… We never really met. Not really. S’kay you didn’t know. Lyra just likes being a &$@#%,” Brent said finally. He jerked his head to the side, towards the door Thistle had come through. “I’m gonna close up. The keys are in the ignition and I’ll open up the garage door for ya if you wait a sec.”

“Oh, um. Thanks.” Thistle watched him walk towards the door, hands fisted at her sides and feeling oddly… disappointed. She wasn’t sure what she had apparently been subconsciously expecting, but Brent just walking away without looking back didn’t seem to be it. “W-Wait! Let me help,” Thistle exclaimed, rushing forward to prop open the door all the way before he could shoulder his way through.

“’m good. You got that big thing in the morning. You should head out,” Brent said, staring down at her in confusion.

She glanced over her shoulder, barely catching sight of the front end of her van past a short line of other cars. “Yeah, but…”

“Look, whatever Lyra told ya, don’t worry about it. I’m not… not _pining_  or some &%$. And you don’t owe me anything,” Brent said fiercely. That flush was back, burning the tops of his ears as he glared angrily at her. “I fixed your van. It’s what I’m good at. Tell Lyra to &^%# off and your pity, too.”

“Whoa, what is _that_  supposed to mean?” Thistle wheeled back slightly, off-balanced and bewildered. She scowled a little when she got her bearings back. “I just thought you were a nice guy and I wanted to– it doesn’t matter. I guess not,” she snapped.

She spun on her heel and stormed towards her van. That’s what she deserved, truly. Whenever she got the slightest bit interested in someone, it blew up in her face. She’d actually thought that hulking moron was cute for about five seconds. She’d keep to her flowers like she preferred anyway. She ignored the sudden outburst of cursing behind her and stormed around the vehicles to get to her own.

The painstakingly painted logo was stark and bright against the grungy grey of the original paint. She touched her hand to the nearest spiky leaf where it curved into an ornate (as she could make it) _F_ , and sighed softly. They’d be all right. _She’d_  be all right. One less worry until the cotillion anyway. She smirked dryly and yanked open her door, tugging herself up the distance into the high bucket seat of the van. Her keys really were dangling from the ignition and she reached for them as she pulled on the door.

Only to half fall out of her seat when the door didn’t move. She half-shrieked in shock, grabbing her steering wheel and door handle in white-knuckled grips as Brent began to curse and apologize profusely on the other side of the door he held.

“I didn’t mean to do that! I thought you heard me! Are you okay? @#$%, I keep #$%@ing this up,” Brent rambled, one hand on her shoulder to hold her in place. She flinched a little and turned to glare furiously at him even as his hand pulled swiftly away.

“What was that for!?”

“I just wanted to catch you!”

“ _Why_? You told me to  &%$# off!” Thistle reminded him, the word odd and unfamiliar in her mouth.

Brent blinked, and rallied. “What, _no_ , I didn’t mean _you_. I thought you were just… I thought Lyra told you… and you were just gonna be nice outta pity. I didn’t mean _you_ ,” Brent babbled, pretty nonsensically to Thistle, while dragging his hands over his face and through his hair. He didn’t seem to notice the streak of grease he left up his temple or the cowlick he’d made over his ear.

“ _What_  do you think Lyra told me? Why would I pity you for helping me with my van? I’m _grateful_ ,” Thistle told him throwing up her hands in aggravation. “Or at least I _was_. I have no idea how to feel now!”

“I’ve been trying to– to ask you out for _months_ , d$%# it. Lyra knows. She’s laughed every time I’ve utterly _failed_  at it, too,” Brent shouted. His voice echoed in the closed-in garage, but Thistle was sure she must be hearing things.

“You what?” she asked incredulously. Her voice did _not_  squeak. Ridiculous.

Brent’s face was red enough for Orrig’s aloe gift to be useful. He put both hands on the edge of her window and gripped it tight as he glowered downwards. “I saw you at that bar, last year. For some _stupid_  reason you were trying to read. _In a bar_. I don’t even think you were drinking. Every time I tried to talk to you, you didn’t even look up. You left when it got too dark or the music got too loud, I don’t even remember.” He dropped his head as his shoulders shook on a laugh.

“I… I remember that night. Lyra actually scolded me for being antisocial,” Thistle recalled. She stared at him, puzzled. “Why would you…”

“There was another time at a party. A house party at Margot’s. I never go to those things, because everyone wears sweater vests and drinks wine with their pinkies out,” Brent grumbled out the confession with a disgusted grimace on his face and Thistle barely kept from laughing. It was a pretty apt, if exaggerated, description. “You were having such a good time talking to Margot, and laughing, and dressed in _normal_  clothes, so I kinda… tried to talk to you, but… you just…” Brent rubbed the back of his neck and grinned lopsidedly at her. “You thought I wanted to say hi to Margot and booked it. I don’t think you even looked at me.”

“Oh… oh, I’m sorry. I’m… I’m sort of horribly awkward in those sorts of situations,” Thistle admitted, her eyes downcast.

“Yeah, not much better myself. So yeah. I figured Lyra told you that’s why I’ve been working so hard on your van. To get your attention or something.”

Silence fell and Thistle traced the bumps of her threadbare steering wheel with a shorn fingernail.

“So… that’s why? You did all this for a date?” Thistle asked, throat dry and chest tight. She wasn’t sure if she were upset or disappointed or offended or flattered. There was just that tightness in her chest and loud flapping noise in her head in place of the insidious voices she was used to. Maybe even her insecurities and inner demons were too flummoxed to respond yet.

“What?! NO!” Brent exclaimed. She jumped in place in shock and he quickly lifted his hands with a sheepish smile. “That’s not… the only reason. I hoped, maybe, I'd get a chance to finally talk to you, but… even if I didn’t, I woulda done it. You work really hard. Margot and Lyra both go on ‘n on ‘n on about it. I’m happy to help you out.”

“That’s… that’s really kind. You really are a nice guy,” Thistle said softly, a smile pulling at her lips again.

Brent huffed and shoved his hands in his overall pockets. “Yeah, well. You know what they say about nice guys,” he muttered mulishly. He shrugged a little. “I better get that door open for you. Good luck… on the fancy little girl party tomorrow. We’re all rooting for you and _Finding Thistles_.”

“ _In the Garden_ ,” Thistle added automatically, eyes rolling in irritation. “It’s _Finding Thistles in the Garden._ It’s literally painted on the side of the van. Do you know how long it took to finish that?”

“You shoulda stuck to just _Finding Thistles_. Sounds nicer,” Brent said, smirking. Thistle scowled at him.

“Let’s see you name a business. I’m busy tomorrow, but… maybe next week sometime?” She tried to say it casually, hands too tight around the wheel and eyes staring forward through the windshield.

“… what?” Brent asked blankly.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, hoping her darker skin concealed the heat growing on her face better than Brent's paler complexion did for him.

“I don’t know what other people think about nice guys, but I like them,” she murmured quietly.

His jaw dropped as he scowled. He somehow managed to look _baffledly enraged_. She wasn’t even sure people could do that to baffled. “Like. A date?”

“Or some coffee? I promise I won’t bring a book,” Thistle said with a hopeful peek under her bangs.

He sputtered, blinking rapidly. If she had walked in and slapped him with Dotra’s bouquet, he wouldn’t have looked this flabbergasted. “Yeah, wait, I have a phone. @#!%, I think I left it inside somewhere.”

“I can get your number from Lyra.”

Brent froze and looked back at her. “No book? Think you can manage?” he said with something like a smirk lifting up a side of his mouth. There was a quiet moment that dragged on until they were both not quite smiling at each other.

“If you can manage to keep the panda succulent alive until then, I might even go to dinner with you,” Thistled heard herself say. Wait. Was that _flirting_? Was she _flirting_  with someone!? She was so shocked, she went immediately mute.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. “I can do that.”

Thistle flushed and ducked her head to hide the too-stupidly pleased grin on her face. He sounded so _earnest_. As if he’d keep that plant alive or die trying.

She finally left with her van, glancing out her side-view mirror to see him standing in the middle the garage, one hand on his hip and the other dragging through his hair. She had no idea what had just happened, or why she’d done it, but… Thistle couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Lyra DID have Chandler Bing's job in this 'verse. But in this one, she started dating Margot and met Thistle. Thistle actually inspired her to give up her 401K steady income job to go for something that would make her happy. It ended up being renting a shitty dojo and teaching kids. Not because she likes kids, but because she can mold their impressionable little minds and she's Lyra. If she's not thriving on frustration and rage, she isn't Lyra. LOL There's a lot more that I have planned for this 'verse, because Bristle needs more love, but no idea if I'll write it.
> 
> Also, I spent like an hour trying to come up with something awesome and punny for Orrig's garage, and then realized it's canon that he's not exactly imaginative. Orc philosophy for life and naming things is basically Occam's Razor, so I carried that over and gave myself a pat on the back.
> 
> Lastly, it was supposed to be a wedding, but I was complaining to a coworker how I'd already written something like that in another Flower Shop AU I did for a friend. And she's like "what about a cotillion?" "dafuq is that? okay, i know, it's a dance or something?" "yeah, for like little girls or som-" SHRIEKs "THAT"S TEH CUTEST IDEA EVAR" and thus it has been changed. hopefully I caught all references to a wedding.


End file.
